brightness and contrast
by Whinnie
Summary: She pulls him up and he lets her go.


_eyes may be the windows to the soul …  
but memories are the doors that actually let us in ._

* * *

**first page;**

* * *

In the beginning, his world was darkened with shades of grey.

A regular bystander would never notice, however. After all, it is in the middle of the afternoon when they all gather – in a small, poor representation of a semicircle, around the patch of grass and stone – and the bright autumn leaves are gently falling to the ground, twirling and fluttering with their bright fall colours.

He refuses to take any part in this affiliation.

Breaking away from the others, the snowy-haired weapon (in his usual human form, no doubt) stalks off with a furious gait, and then changes direction to shift away from the wind biting at his face. Despite it being autumn only, it is already so chilly, and he has never been a fan of the cold.

Even if the strange weather is quite fitting for the recent occurrences.

He stops in front of a tree, slouched over more than usual; his clothes look much looser and baggier than before, and his appearance has a more dishevelled touch to it. Despite this, he is raging and wants to scream. To yell at the branches and kick at the wood and just let go of all his anger. But then, he realizes that will only succeed in making him look completely idiotic – and also incredibly uncool ( _… then again, shouting at inanimate objects – even if only in your head – is totally idiotic and uncool, too_).

He almost laughs at that thought – being cool, being uncool, having a reputation … it all seems so **stupid** now.

Then he simply sneers and bitterly wonders how something unwanted can remain behind while another that is badly desired disappears. And as he is caught up in gloomy thoughts, he gazes up at the beautiful leaves, believing that he is one himself – falling forever and ever, into a slow torturing descent of loneliness, separate from the root of life and happiness.

* * *

"…_I've failed my mission."_

As soon as he thinks that, he feels silly, and now that he's pondered a bit more deeply, he realizes that **she** would think him stupid for considering it as well.

But then again, he would rather be idiotic than bear being here.

In the living room of their – well, technically now it's only _his_ – apartment, their friends sit around the coffee table in a dampened silence. He figures that it's too hard for any of them to speak; he himself, who once laughed loudly and shouted boyishly enough to make her want to hurt him, barely gets by with a few words each day.

Eventually, they all get up and slowly move to the happy world that is outside, although they **do** take the time to linger in the doorway and mutter a few more words to him. He feels that, just for being reminded that they are suffering just as he is, he shouldn't hold their departure against them.

Because they never knew her the way he did.

And at least they can leave this wretched place, while he is chained to it, haunted by its memories, day and night.

One figure, the very last one, stays much longer than the rest. It is Kid – good ol' son of Death himself. He stops right before the doorframe and turns to face him, slowly yet with purpose.

"Tsubaki and I…" the Shinigami is hesitant, and the white-haired weapon, with his hand ready to close the door, can see that Kid, _even now_, cannot find the right words either. "We started going through some of her stuff last night, like you told us to, and we found something that might… interest you." He fingers the white Sanzu lines permanently etched onto that one side of his hair, not seeming to be bothered by them – and then the silent white-haired boy suddenly realizes how much _things have changed_.

"I know you don't want to go in there," Kid continues on, a bit more warily, "but you're going to have to handle it before you start enduring everything else." With that, he concludes with, "On the dresser," before turning his back and facing the outside world, so that his friend can only see his silhouette, created by the dimness of the setting sun.

* * *

He wonders if there is anything to describe achievement… or amazement. Or even both.

He is completely surprised that he has made it this far, this close – _right beside the bed_ – and not broken down or run out yet.

Then again, he had never spent much time in her room, even when she still stayed in it.

Everything is neat and tidy and clean – just the way she always was, and just the way he predicts she will be the next time he sees her (whenever **that** is, because he **will** _see her again_). Books are stacked up in a corner of her desk, which is spotless and free of broken pencil lead or eraser shavings; the bed is made, contrary to his messy one full of his blankets and tissues and tears. (_Yes, lots of tissues and even thousands more of tears._) The bookshelf next to the bed is completely full and probably organized by alphabet or author or date written or number of pages; though he does not stop to check because he has noticed the _one huge gap_ in amongst the books, where something has been taken out while all the rest have been left behind.

Funny – it sort of reminds him of her sudden leave.

Then he turns and, even in the low light of the sun streaking in through the windows, he sees the box – orange and decorated all over with floral patterns – sitting on the dresser, right in front of her mirror. As he glances at his own reflection, taking note of his bloodshot eyes and shaggy appearance, he imagines that this is the _exact same_ spot where she probably stood every day, maybe to fix her pigtails or straighten out her skirt or put on her tie…

He shakes his head hard, and then it is just himself he sees once again. _Him and him alone_, he thinks, and it numbs out the pain as he heads towards the box and pulls off the lid. It is very simple, nothing fancy; maybe just a really small shoebox that was covered with wrapping paper or something. But he has never seen that beautiful pattern ever before.

Sheet upon sheet of paper greets him.

His ruby eyes widen as he tries to guess how many have been tucked away, a secret from the world – fifty? a hundred? maybe even two hundred? – until now. He cannot read what the first page says – not because he **doesn't** want to, but rather because he **can't**; the pages are kept in such a way that he would've thought they belonged in a filing cabinet rather than in a dark closet's corner (_of course, he should've known she'd done something like that_). Not only that, but the damn sun has also chosen this time to duck behind a cloud, so he goes to turn on the light, and it only flickers on halfway (of course; he keeps forgetting to change the bulb … but _it is enough for now_).

He flicks through and pulls out a random sheet from somewhere near the front of the box.

_**Dear Mama,**_

_**Happy birthday! I hope you're having a wonderful time wherever you are right now. No – I **_**know **_**that you're having a wonderful time. I can  
only imagine the adventures you're taking on right now, though. Are you flying in a hot air balloon, watching a beautiful sunrise while  
looking for your assignment? Maybe you're at a circus, laughing at the clowns while thinking that your target could be disguised as one.  
Either way, be safe and have tons of fun! I still wish that you could come home and spend a birthday with me, but until then, I'll wait and  
hope that day shall come soon!  
I miss you.**_

_**Love, Maka.**_

"_Whoa… what the…?"_ He drops the page and almost the box as well, but keeps a firm grip on it and instead collapses onto the floor. His heart thumps loudly and he thinks that he can actually **hear** it; it seems to beat so hard. He is dazed for a moment or two, recalling the words (_her words_), and then scrambles frantically to regain the paper as if someone would just walk in and take it away. When he gets a hold of it, he squeezes tightly and his eyes rove all over every single line; because he can hardly believe that _he is seeing her writing_.

It seems like magic.

Eventually, his gaze wanders back to the simple yet pretty box (_pretty simple; simply pretty_), and he wonders what else is inside. He looks through once again, this time inspecting a bit more, and discovers that all of the pages seem to be letters; each one starts with "dear". The sheets even have dates on them, and he chuckles at this, even though he realizes that he only manages to notice _how predictable she is_ when she is gone.

It's a saddening thought, so to distract himself from more grief, he plucks another page from a random place in the box.

_**Dear Mama,**_

_**Remember how I mentioned that Soul and I were going on an assignment to India? Well, we went  
all right. Mission accomplished!  
But that's not the point of this letter.  
Before entering the country, I knew that it was poverty ridden and nothing like the luxuries we  
have in Death City or even any other place in America.  
But I was still shocked.  
Although the dusty roads, rundown houses, and countless animals freely roaming the street  
were unexpected, what really got to me was the endless amount of poor, homeless people. They  
reached at me, begging helplessly for food and money. I gave them everything I had and wished  
I'd brought more.  
And that wasn't all that broke my heart.  
Later on, when Soul and I were heading back to the airport, a little girl stopped us. She must've been  
only 4 or 5 years old, yet she was so bony. Her hands and clothes were grubby, and her expression  
said that she was absolutely miserable.  
She came towards us and shoved something into my hand. I gave it back, but she wouldn't accept it;  
from what I could tell, she was trying to get us to buy something. Soul looked at me and asked if I  
wanted it, and when I shook my head no, he tried to get her to leave. Then she looked at me and  
whispered something – "Mama".  
At that moment, Soul did something amazing. He went to a nearby vendor, bought some food, and  
handed it to the girl. He took his bottle of soda from his bag and gave that to her as well. I was about  
to give her money anyway, but she gave a small, grateful bow and ran off.  
I feel so proud to have Soul as my friend.**_

– he can't help but crack a smile.

_**But on the plane, I just felt like crying. It's so unfair! Why do I get read and go to school and play  
basketball with my friends while that poor little girl is forced to live on the streets off of barely  
anything? I hate it! In that moment when she ran off, I just felt like chasing after her, scooping her  
into my arms, and carrying her back onto the plane with us. She will never get to run around with her  
friends and laugh carelessly, or sleep in a warm comfy bed with nothing to worry about.  
I wish that I could see that little girl again. I just want to go back and find her and give her **_**everything  
**_**I have!  
But I know it's not going to happen. I feel so helpless.**_

At this point, he has to stop reading; a memory tugs at the edge of his brain, and a picture from the past forms in his mind. He sees the sleek interior of a private jet, hears himself exclaiming how "cool" the many features are, especially since they have the whole plane to themselves; he listens to Maka's irritated voice commenting on how **stupid** he is acting, feels her turn towards the window broodingly in the seat next to him, and wonders _what crawled up your ass and died this time?_

Then suddenly, something else hits him like a speeding bullet – he remembers that sound, similar to a sniffle, which he'd thought he'd imagined on the ride; remembers how, the moment they'd come home, Maka had locked herself into her room and refused to come out; remembers when, after that, she would regularly talk about _"going back to visit such a beautiful place … come on, Soul, you know you want to see it again too!"_

Everything fits now, including that feeling of **guilt** in his stomach, as his eyes move back to the bottom of the page in his hand.

_**So Mama, next time you visit such a place, please take the time to find a little child and give something  
out for me …  
Or better yet, take them with you and give them a permanent home …  
I know that's what I'm going to do one day. Even if I can't find that little girl again, I'm going to be  
someone else's "mama".  
But until then, please do it for me.**_

_**Love, Maka.**_

He can't take it anymore. He pushes the box off of his lap, runs out of the room, and collapses in the hall. And as sobs begin to wrack his entire body, he begins to wish that he could _go back_ and find her and _give her_ **everything** _that he has_.

* * *

**A/N: this is still a WIP .. i know where i want to go with it and it's not going to be too long , but i seriously hope i can finish it haha ... it's hard for me to finish anything nowadays , x.x; i guess only time will tell ? anyway hope you enjoyed the first part ! take care everyone~ ^^**


End file.
